


The Last Day

by zlot



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Banter, Bittersweet, Fishing, M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlot/pseuds/zlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day before the Quarter Quell and its awful twist are to be announced, Finnick takes Cinna fishing in the one of the Capitol’s pleasure gardens, just around dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lanyon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, lanyon!
> 
> I wrote this as a silly little treat that got away from me, both in length and in seriousness. I'm not sure what happened to get them to the pond that day, but I hope this works for you as a Cinna/Finnick moment of happiness. Happy holidays!

The day before the Quarter Quell and its awful twist are to be announced, Finnick takes Cinna fishing in the one of the Capitol’s pleasure gardens, just around dawn.

The pond is secluded. It’s too early in the day for lovers to be cavorting in the solitary walks, and there are other public lanes where the few residents who rise early will eventually begin to congregate, to see and be seen.

“I have a horrible feeling,” says Cinna, “there won’t be any fish in this pond. Why would there be? It’s decorative, like everything else.”

“Have a little faith,” Finnick urges. “Annie says she saw some the last time we were here, and she sees a lot more than you or me.”

Cinna doesn’t question, or make any of the arch replies that rise to the surface of his brain, but tries to stifle a yawn and watches as Finnick pulls out a bag of pins. “Did you steal those?” Cinna bursts forth, more loudly than he intends.

“You’ll frighten away the fish! I knew this would happen if I brought a city boy.”

“Those are from my workroom, aren’t they,” Cinna demands, more quietly.

“You’re kind of a stick in the mud this early,” Finnick says, smiling directly into his eyes, and Cinna almost has to take a step back from the brilliance of Finnick’s beauty. “I couldn’t,” Finnick continues, focusing his attention back on the pins, “find fish hooks anywhere in this forsaken town.”

“I was under the apprehension,” Cinna says, sitting down on the pond’s grassy bank, “that your way was to stab the fish with your big fork-spear.”

“ _Trident_ ,” Finnick says, and Cinna can feel him rolling his eyes. “Honestly, I was photographed with it for enough fashion shoots. You read those rags, don’t you?”

“Well, I never bother to read the captions when you’re in the photograph.”

Finnick looks up and smiles, again dazzlingly, before his face subsides into wry bemusement. “They don’t let me have the trident in the Capitol, except for pictures. It’s just for killing people, apparently, and I’m not supposed to do that except when they tell me.”

Cinna feels, as usual, his surge of what he terms Capitol-guilt. He inches towards Finnick. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“Ah. Well,” Finnick murmurs, “my old mentor Mags taught me how to make a hook out of pretty much anything. Pins are easy. See?” He holds up a hook, tied to a line -- fashioned from something else from Cinna’s workroom, no doubt. “This one’s for you, and now I’ll make one for me. Put yours on the rod.”

And so they end up sitting on the bank together, hooks dangling in the pond. There are no bites, no tugs on the lines. Sometimes they speak together in quiet voices, mostly about their surroundings. More often they sit in companionable silence. Once, Cinna asks Finnick to take his rod so he can make a sketch; he’s noticed the subtle contours of a particular leaf as it floats on the still water. Cinna never trusts himself to remember what he sees.

Finnick is the only one who catches anything, a few hours in. He spends a few moments looking at the fish, trapped on the hook, before releasing it back into the pond.

“Wouldn’t do that in District Four,” he says, eyes on the water. “We have to eat. Well, before I was a victor, anyway. Odairs can buy their fish now.”

Cinna makes no reply; he is still thinking about how Finnick looked at the hooked, wriggling fish. Finally, he says, quite simply, “Tomorrow.” Plutarch has told them what’s coming, but Katniss doesn’t know, and Cinna is out of emotions to feel about that. About anything.

“Mmm.” Finnick doesn’t look round, but a few moments pass, and then he looks at Cinna and smiles again. “You certainly can be depressing sometimes, Cinna. Honestly. We’re here so we don’t have to think about it.”

“I’m still thinking about it,” Cinna admits.

“Well, I’m not,” Finnick says. He sits down on the bank again. “I’m thinking about how much I love being out early, when all the Capitol morons -– present company excepted –- are still in bed. And how I love catching fish, when it isn’t a choice between catching one and starving. And how I love that you wore your silly gold eyeliner today, even though you were barely awake when we left your house.”

Cinna doesn’t _blush_ , because he’s not fifteen, but his face does redden a bit. Finnick holds out a hand, and he allows himself to be pulled back down onto the grass.

“I’m going to enjoy today,” Finnick says, snaking a bronzed arm around Cinna’s prominent shoulder blades. “Tomorrow I’ll go home and put Annie back together, and get ready for what’s coming. And so will you. Plenty of nastiness to go around, and danger. Today should be good.”

“All right,” says Cinna, and leans in, and kisses him.

And kissing Finnick is rarely an easy thing; Cinna always worries when he does it. He wishes his lips could erase history, make time turn back, remove all traces of compulsion and pain. They can’t, but ever since the time in bed when Finnick groaned “Stop, I can feel you _fretting_ ,” into his neck, Cinna has tried to hide his anxiety.

Today, though –- maybe it’s the morning sky, the dappled ground, the light on the water –- but Cinna doesn’t worry, or think much at all. It’s quiet, and warm: here is Finnick’s breath, light against him, and here is his in return, a bit more uneven. Here are his dry, smooth lips; here is the sliding insinuation of Finnick’s tongue. Here is want, and here is need.

“Good,” Finnick mumbles against Cinna’s mouth. “I was getting worried at how easy you were finding it, resisting me.” Cinna laughs, they both do, bumping teeth awkwardly. Finnick pushes Cinna down onto the grass and stretches his body out against his; there is a wonderful solidity to Finnick’s body when close and flush against his –- it means safety, or the illusion of it. Cinna’s sketch book sits uselessly a short distance away, but his mind files away the crinkled lines of Finnick’s last laugh in the tanned skin around his eyes. Maybe he will draw them later, to keep for when Finnick is gone. Or maybe memory will, just this once, be enough.


End file.
